This is a song about "Arms race"

That you were in my arms

You haters put up your guards

Got your whore doing shit that's uncalled for

I, own guns, got my own arms dealer

Tire marks, tire marks

Tug these sleeves up my arms

Driving my car to a foreign place

Can't stop so do you want to race,

Henny in my cup don't need no chase

My pace makes you start to race

I be calling out game like miles at the farms

After all that shit you still call me baby in your arms

So strong, was her will to make her home in his arms,

You know how jay-z said he wasn't going for the charts